All the Pretty Little Butterflies
by lonewlf
Summary: First fan fiction, tells the story of how Jane came to the Volturi in an AU. Oneshot


AN: This is my first fanfiction, and it takes place in an AU, telling the tale of how Jane became what she is, and why. Just try it and read! Anyhows, thanks!

I was a mistake. From the first moment I was alive on this planet, that was what I was, and that was what I would forever be doing. Mistakes happen. But I was a big one. A living, breathing, mistake. I guess they would have to live with a little girl after all, Not just their precious Niki, the perfect, wonderful boy they always wanted. No. They would have to take care of their little mistake too. Waste money on her that should have been wasted on Niki. Wasted all on that little girl….

My mother says she loves me, says you can't have an 'oopsie' without love. Every mistake has love in it, otherwise you wouldn't have made it in the first place. I don't know how that works. Mother says I will one day. For now, I don't. For now I just know that she loves me, and my brother. 'How can I not?' she'd ask. And immediately I can think of all the little things that would make her, and apologize over and over. At least, until she beats me. Or is that Pop? I think that's Pop.

Pop doesn't like mistakes. Says that their rotten and should never happen. That the world should be perfect and clean of them. Of me. Says that he can't get rid of a mistake this big, so he's just going to have to make it strong, make it worthy. I apologize to him too. I know I'm not worthy. Not worthy to have been given this big of a chance to live. To have this opportunity. 'Mistakes just make more mistakes' is my father's motto. And I really do try not too.

I really do.

But sometimes, I do mess up. And I try to hide it the best I can. Try desperately. But he finds out. He always does. Through Niki, or the maids, or the butlers, he's going to find out. And when he does… he screams and shouts, and stomps and beats until I have all these bruises on me, making a pretty painting on my skin. An ouchy painting. And I go running to Mother, who holds me and coos. Sometimes she cries, and yells at Pop, while I stand there in the background, silently watching.

My mother says that I'm her best mistake she's ever made. And that makes me feel worse sometimes. Pop says that all mistakes are bad, and if I'm the best, then that means that I'm the worse one that she's ever done. Ever. And I don't like that. But I'll smile any way, and she'll tuck me in, while singing to me. I don't know the song. I think she made it up, but I'm not sure. Niki just snickers when I try to sing or imitate it.

But at night, the first star, I wish on it. I wish on it dearly.

'Star, o' star, please make me not a mistake.' And every night the first star will twinkle back as if to say, 'Just wait. Just wait.' And that's more comforting than my mother's arms. It's not like I don't like my life. It's just the way it is. So many 'just waits' and 'mistakes' and other words like that are the basic foundations of me. For a four year old, I haven't told anyone any of this. Not even my mother. I don't think she could handle Pop beating me, and what I have to think about it.

No. I really am happy. Or at least… I think I am. I tried to ask the maids once what happiness was, and they just looked at me sadly. I think they can see my painted skin. The bruises.

One maid is named Mary Elis. She's a nice woman. Pop's real found of her, and sometimes even let's her stay the night in his room when she can't go home. But I don't think she's happy. She's the only one I found who was like me one day. Bruises on her arms and legs. But they were different bruises. I didn't ask.

Mary Elis is my maid. Or nanny as some calls it. I don't care. It means the same thing… I think. She'll clean me and dress me, but never play. She says it's childish for a little girl like me to play. Instead, she gives me books and asks me questions. Ones that I don't understand. Mother says not to worry. Says that it's okay that I don't get some of the questions. Pop doesn't agree though. He says that if I don't know the answer to a question, it's a mistake. And mistakes are some of the most horrible, un-right things you could ever do. I try not to make mistakes. I really do. But sometimes it's hard. And I want to cry out in frustration.

No matter what I do it's wrong! It's wrong! Even me being here, alive, is wrong! Sometimes when I go out in the gardens I meet a man. He tells me not to tell Pop that he's there. He's a real sickly looking man. Pale and ghostly. I used to like his visits, but now his tales of outside wonders make me scowl with hate. He couldn't take me there even if it was possible. Mistakes aren't let outside of the house.

He promises when I'm older though, that he'll take me far away from the house, far, far away. And that I won't even remember any of the pain that I've endured here. I like that promise. It's a promise not made to me by a star or an idiot mother, who's sweet cooings are nothing more that a gentle plead for a better life. It's a promise not made to me by a maid who has bruises just like me, and forces me to make more mistakes by not knowing answers to her stupid questions.

It's a real promise. One that could withstand. And that promise I have remembered until now. Letting it grow in my heart, keeping it a secret with all my other little promises of revenge on people, of all the things that have ever been told to me. Oh. They think I don't remember. They think because I'm a little girl I haven't figured out what's going on in the house. They think I haven't figured out that they actually don't love me; they're just keeping me there so the neighbors won't get suspicious and think I am a mistake.

I know. And I remember. I always will, no matter if that was part of the icy pale gentlemen's promise. I will remember. And every day that I live, and they don't, they'll remember my promise.

The promise that I will become more powerful then them, and that I will come back for revenge against my father, against my pitiful mother, and against my brother; I will come back. And they will die.

All of them.

I see the man now, and he holds out his hand I take it, and soon, he picks me up, and jumps over the brick wall I have never been able to cross. Runs to the woods that I had only seen in story books, and there he bites me. For the last time I see all the pretty little butterflies leaving the garden, never to return.


End file.
